Cinderella Steals Home

by Syms, Carly

  Night has fallen completely over the lake now, the fire the only light we have, and I'm starting to wonder when we're going to head back home. Even with my nap earlier, I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes from fluttering closed.

  "Glad you liked it," Doan says once he's finished chewing.

  "Yeah, you killed it on the grill," Joey adds. "Nice job, bro."

  "It's about that time," he says. "Hand me your plates."

  "I can clean up," I say, scrambling to my feet. "You already cooked and brought everything out here."

  I'm not sure why I do it, but I catch Allison's eye then and she's looking back at me with an amused, I-told-you-so smile on her face.

  Great.

  "You don't have to do that," Doan says.

  I shrug but before I can say anything, Justin answers for me.

  "Yeah, she does," he says. "It's just who she is. That's definitely our mom's side coming out."

  I turn to Justin slowly and find him smiling hesitantly at me. But I'm just surprised he remembers that. I return his smile before collecting everyone's trash and tossing into one of the empty plastic bags near the grill.

  When I'm done, I realize that only Doan is left on the blanket. He's watching me as I figure out that it's just the two of us now.

  Alone.

  I slow my approach as I get nearer to him, but I'm close enough to see the amused smile spread across his face.

  "Where'd everyone go?"

  "They left."

  I shake my head. "Oh, is that what happened? Thanks for that."

  He grins cheekily at me and the fire is bright enough to show the twinkle in his eyes.

  "Allison and Justin decided to take a walk. I don't know where the others went."

  I drop down onto the blanket, close enough to let him easily cover the distance between us but leaving enough space that it doesn't seem like I want him to.

  "Fireworks should start soon," he says without moving.

  "From where?"

  He shrugs. "Whoever brought some on the water. I had some last year but we figured out pretty fast that it's easier to watch everyone else shoot them instead." He pauses, then chuckles softly. "Plus, Justin almost blew his hand off."

  I laugh. "You know that isn't the first time he's done that."

  Doan nods. "He mentioned that. You were still living here when that happened, right?"

  "Yeah. My mom wouldn't talk to my dad for days."

  "What happened there?" he asks, his voice quiet and serious.

  "Where?" I ask even though I know exactly what he means.

  "With your parents. And you and Justin. Why'd you move away? What's the rest of the story you wouldn't tell me before?"

  I take a deep breath and absently twist my hair into a loose spiral.

  "You know you do that when you're nervous," he says, nodding at my hair.

  I frown and instantly let go of the twist. "No, I don't."

  He raises an eyebrow. "Pretty sure you do."

  I can hear the amusement in his voice but with Allison's words blurring my thoughts, I'm unnerved that he's noticed me do this enough to point it out.

  And be right about it.

  "Do you want to hear the story or not?"

  "Sorry." He stretches out and rests his head on the blanket. "Tell me. From the beginning."

  "I told you a lot of it already."

  "I want to hear it again."

  I take a deep breath. "You know my dad used to play pro baseball."

  "Yep. For Arizona."

  I nod. "Right. And for Colorado," I say. "He got traded there right at the deadline and went and played out the year. Me and Justin and my mom stayed here. We watched all of his games. I still loved baseball then because it was the only thing I really knew. I didn't really think anything of it. Of Dad going to live in Colorado for a couple of months. He would go and he would come back and everything would be fine. He was going to retire at the end of the season because he didn't want to live in Colorado permanently and he still had a couple years left on his contract. And he did come back."

  I pause before continuing as I pick up handfuls of sand and let the grains run between my fingers.

  "I just didn't expect him to come back with someone else."

  Doan draws in a sharp breath. "Tanya?"

  I nod. "Tanya. They met in Denver. She was a manager in the front office for the team or something. I don't know. I never wanted to listen to their story. Dad moved back with her and then he told Mom. She had no idea it was coming. She went to pick him up at the airport that day expecting her husband to come home to her. He told her in baggage claim."

  Doan opens his mouth to say something but I shake my head.

  "No," I say. "Don't. It happened a long time ago but it still sucked. I was mad at him. You can't even imagine. I didn't want to watch baseball. I didn't want to play it and so I didn't. I walked away, gave it up. And I did the same thing with my dad. When Mom wanted to get out of town and start fresh, I jumped at the chance to go with her. Everything out here just reminded me of Dad and of baseball. He was still a legend out here for what he did for the team. I didn't want to be Ron Shaw's daughter anymore. I just -- I don't know. I wanted to be Holly."

  "And now you are," Doan says quietly.

  I look up at him sharply, taken aback by his comment, but I feel a funny stirring in my stomach when he says it. I can't help but smile.

  "Yeah," I say. "I am."

  "She's pretty great, too," he goes on, but before he can continue, the first thunderous crack of fireworks fills the air, lighting the dark sky.

  We look at one another without saying a word as the fireworks sparkle and explode faster and more frequently, lighting up the area around us.

  And that's when I realize that I don't need him to say anything at all. He listened. And he understands. He might even understand me.

  And that's enough.

  I'm not sure if I close the gap between us or if he does, but without even really thinking about it, I'm suddenly pressed up against him and his lips touch mine and they're soft and sweet and gentle at first, questioning, asking if this is okay, and my head is spinning and all I know is that I want more of him.

  More of Doan.

  Who would've thought?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The day after Fourth of July brings another baseball game. I'm feeling a lot better about this one than I did before my first, and I can't help but be thankful I stopped drinking early yesterday afternoon.

  I'm more relaxed now than I remember being since I first got to Arizona, and I don't really have to think too hard about what's causing it.

  And I'm about to see him in a few minutes for the first time since he kissed me.

  It's enough to make my stomach twist itself into knots that don't want to be untangled.

  I pull my green Honda into a parking spot next to the baseball field. Justin had spent last night with Allison and wasn't home in time to drive me to the game, but I don't mind. It's nice to have a few minutes to myself to process everything that's happening.

  Even if I'm still as confused as ever when I get out of the car. I grab my baseball bag and bat from the backseat and head over to our dugout. The other team isn't here yet, and hardly any of my teammates are, either.

  But Dad is.

  "Hey kiddo," he says when he sees me approaching. "How was your holiday?"

  "It was good."

  "Your brother treat you okay?"

  "Justin's great, Dad."

  "And how are you feeling about the game?"

  I shake my head; I knew he couldn't keep baseball out of the conversation for very long.

  "I'm not going to screw everything up again today," I say with a sigh as I begin digging through the bag for my glove. "Don't worry."

  "I'm not worried about that." Dad says this like he's offended I thought it in the first place. "I want to make sure you're holding up okay."

  "Well, I'm fine," I tell him. "I'm ready to play."

>   "Good," Dad says. "You can tell me if you have any concerns, you know."

  I'm trying to decide how to respond when I'm saved by the unlikeliest of heroes.

  "Hey, Coach." Doan and my brother walk down the steps of the dugout and over to us. "How's it hangin'?"

  Doan looks over at me and winks. I smile, feel my cheeks color and immediately look down at the dirty rubber floor.

  "It's hanging just fine, Doan," Dad says, and I try to choke back a laugh.

  I quickly return my attention to my bag so I don't get myself in any trouble.

  "Great to hear it, sir," Doan says cheerfully. "Hey, Holls, let's go toss a ball around and warm-up. You down?"

  "Sure."

  I slide my glove on over my hand. Dad's looking from Doan to me and back to Doan as if he can see that there are puzzle pieces here that need assembling but he isn't quite sure how they fit together yet.

  And I want to get out of the dugout before he starts asking questions I'm not up for answering.

  I jog up the steps and out into left field. Doan follows, tossing a ball back and forth between his bare hand and his glove.

  "Hi," he says once we've gotten away from Dad and Justin.

  I grin. "Well, hello."

  "You good?" he asks, and I know he's talking about more than just the game.

  "Never better."

  He laughs, then throws the ball to me. "Thought your dad might be giving you a hard time."

  It lands in my glove with a soft, easy thud. "No more or less than usual."

  "So I didn't get to step in and save the princess."

  "Just means you'll have to try again."

  "I'm okay with this," he tells me. "Always like to find a damsel, even if she isn't in much distress."

  I shake my head as I lob the ball back at him.

  "So you ready for the game tonight?" he asks.

  "Hope so. My coach seems to think I'll be in pretty good shape, though."

  He nods. "Definitely. Remember, just relax and enjoy it and hit the pitch you want, not the one you get."

  We throw the ball a few more times and by then, the rest of our team and our opponents have assembled on the field. Doan and I make our way back to the dugout where Dad's posted the line-up card for the evening.

  He gathers us in just outside the dugout for a few inspirational pre-game words but I tune him out.

  I'm not exactly sure he's one to be dishing out words of wisdom.

  After the little huddle breaks apart, we jog out to our positions. I look for Doan on the pitcher's mound but Dave Durden is tossing warm-up pitches to the catcher instead.

  I frown before remembering that Doan pitched in our first game and has tonight off. He'll be in the bullpen instead of on the dugout's bench with the rest of us.

  Great.

  The game begins and it's slow at first; not a lot of action comes my way and I find that I'm having a hard time keeping myself totally focused on the pitches and at-bats. I realize it's probably a good thing Doan isn't on the mound tonight -- I'm not completely sure I'd be able to keep my eyes off him if he was.

  Dad has me batting eighth in the line-up, two spots below where he put me for the first game, but it doesn't matter to me. My job is still the same.

  We're in the third inning before I get to take a crack at the pitcher. Mike Neese has just finished striking out while I'm taking practice swings in the on deck circle.

  I step up to the plate and stare in at the pitcher. I adjust my stance the way Doan taught me at the batting cages and get ready to wait for the ball.

  The pitcher shakes his head twice before settling on a pitch with his catcher.

  I wait. He winds up. His leg goes up. His arm pulls back. He pitches himself forward. The ball comes out of his hand. It flies in toward me. I recognize the curveball right way, like it's coming at me in slow motion. I got this.

  It's hittable. A perfect pitch. The one Doan was always telling me to hope for.

  I wiggle the bat above my head once, then prepare to make contact. I smack the ball as hard as I can; I feel it hit the end of my bat, heavy and hard, the weight of the impact pushing down on my hands. The ball flies out toward centerfield. I release my bat and start running for first base, then second.

  I make it safely, the ball arriving in the second baseman's glove a few seconds after my foot touches the bag.

  I hear a few faint cheers and claps from the stands and maybe the dugout.

  A sense of relief washes over me even though I haven't really done anything. At least I'm on base. At least I haven't forgotten baseball completely. Maybe it can still be a real part of me after all.

  Because the thing is, the more I'm around it, the more I can't pretend I haven't missed it all these years, no matter how much I wish it wasn't true.

  I force myself to pay attention as Cam Cooper comes up to bat with one out and me on second. He takes the first two pitches as strikes, watches the third land way up and outside and smacks at the fourth.

  It trickles harmlessly to the first baseman who steps on the bag and makes the easy out. I stay put on second as my brother, the lead-off hitter, comes back up to the plate. Justin's already had one hit today in his first at-bat.

  I'm hoping he can get another so I'll get to score a run.

  I know scoring a run here isn't going to make me a hero. It's just the second game. But it might make me feel a little bit better about how baseball fits into my life.

  Justin waits for the ball. He stares at the pitcher with an intensity I've never seen from him before, the eye black darker under his eyes than anyone's else.

  He doesn't waste any time; he swings at the first pitch he sees. It's gone. I already know it. It flies back, back, back, way back. I watch, standing about halfway between second and third base to make sure, but I already know.

  Sure enough, it flies over the outfield wall and rests easily in the grassy field behind us.

  I clap my hands twice as I round third and head for home. And when my feet touch the plate, I let out a small sigh of relief. I know it wasn't my work that got us the run -- I haven't stolen a base or driven in the run, but at least I crossed the plate.

  That counts for something to me.

  I scored. I'm back. Baseball is back in my life.

  ***

  Justin and I have scored our team's only two runs -- the only two runs of the entire game -- by the time the last inning rolls around. The Anthem Antlers are down to their final three outs and they have to score at least twice or the game's over.

  Dave Durden isn't on the mound anymore. Dad's bringing in Doan to pitch the ninth and save the game for us.

  I'm surprised by the move. Doan's never said anything to me about wanting to pitch in relief before, but I'm sure Dad has his reasons. He trusts Doan to get the job done.

  I've been focused on the game, hardly thinking of Doan at all until he trots out onto the mound in his tight white baseball pants. I see the silver chain of his dog tags peeking out from the collar of his shirt, a reminder of the time I saw him at Dad's pool more than a month ago.

  I have to laugh to myself, thinking about how quickly things can change even when it's the last thing you think you want. How maybe we don't even know what's best for us anyway.

  Doan's ready. The first batter stares at him. It's an easy out; he flies out behind the catcher on the first pitch. We're just two outs away now from getting the win.

  No sweat.

  The next batter is up at the plate but I don't watch him. I watch Doan, every movement of his arms, legs, his whole body as it works in perfect unison to deliver a perfect pitch.

  Doan stares in at the catcher who signals the call between his legs and Doan nods, then delivers.

  The batter hits a slow groundball and it's coming right at me but I don't see it. I don't know what's happening until it's too late and the ball bounces between my legs and trickles into the grass behind me.

  The batter reaches first base before I can throw the bal
l.

  It never should have happened.

  Groans fill the air and I feel my cheeks flush with hot, stinging shame. I've been so proud of what I've done today and now this. An error, no doubt, charged to my name.

  My fault.

  At the worst possible time.

  I catch Doan's eye as I pound my fist into my glove. He smiles calmly, shaking his head, as if telling me not to worry about it, as if telling me that I have to forget it happened and have a short memory.

  He's right, but I feel bad, except Doan's on the mound, and if anyone can fix it, I know it's him.

  The next batter strikes out looking -- three pitches, three strikes. I sigh with relief. We've got this.

  Everything's going to be fine.

  What I hope is the last batter approaches the plate then.

  He works his way to a three-two count and Doan stares in, ready to deliver the final strike and get the out.

  The pitch flies in. The batter swings and the sickening crunch of baseball meeting wood fills the field. I watch as our center fielder gives chase; he's going back, back, back, just like when Justin hit his home run.

  But now it's just dread in me because I know where this ball is going to end up and then it's flying over Tommy's outstretched hands and lands tauntingly just beyond the fence.

  A home run.

  And not just a home run, but a two-run home run. All because of me. The game is tied.

  It isn't lost on me that I'm going to be batting in the now-necessary bottom of the inning.

  Doan gets the next batter out with ease. But it's enough damage for nausea to fill my stomach and keep me from wanting to go back out onto the field.

  But I have to.

  I can't meet my teammates' eyes in the dugout between half-innings and not even Dad comes over to talk to me.

  Not that I'd take him all that seriously anyway.

  But Doan's in the dugout now that he pitched and he finds me as soon as he can. He pulls me aside into the corner and puts both hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes.

  "Don't beat yourself up over this, Holls," he says. "Don't do it. I know you. Let it go."